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At a Loss
April 3, 2008
I thought I could bang out a column today—a regular column, a column about my readers' problems and their freaky fetishes and all those asshole politicians out there. You know, the usual.
The day my son was born, I managed to slip out of the maternity ward and write a column; I wrote one the day I was indicted by the state of Iowa for licking Gary Bauer's doorknobs. (I was actually indicted for voter fraud—on a trumped-up charge, your honor—but Bauer's knob needs all the attention it can get.) I've written columns on days that I was dumped and on the morning of 9/11. So I figured that I could bang out a column today.
I opened my laptop and started reading your letters. I love reading your letters—I do. But I couldn't get into it. I just don't have a column in me this week. I'm disappointed in myself. I write this column at Ann Landers's desk, for crying out loud, and the old lady banged out a heartbreaking, truncated column when her marriage collapsed. If Landers could bang one out under that kind of emotional strain, then I could damn well bang one out, too. Just do it, right? Just fucking do it. But I just fucking can't.
My mother died on Monday.
Perhaps a sex-advice column isn't an appropriate place to eulogize an articulate, elegant woman, a practicing Catholic named for the patron saint of hopeless causes and, perhaps consequently, a Cubs fan. I mean, really. Eulogizing my mother back here with the escort ads? So let's not think of this as a eulogy. Let's think of it as a thank-you note, the kind of nicety that my mother appreciated.
Forgive the cliché: My mom gave me so much. She gave me life, of course, and some other stuff besides: her sense of humor, her bionic bullshit detectors, her colossal sweet tooth. She also gave me—she gave all four of her children (Bill, Ed, Dan, Laura)—her unconditional love. Long after I came out, she told me she always suspected that I might be gay; I was the quiet one, the boy who liked Broadway musicals and baking cakes and shared her passion for Strauss waltzes. When I asked my parents to take me to the national tour of A Chorus Line for my 13th birthday, that should have settled the matter. Your third son? Total fag, lady. But my parents were Catholic and religious and it somehow still came as a shock when I told them. My mother came around fast and she came out swinging—rainbow stickers on her car, a PFLAG membership card in her wallet, and an ultimatum delivered to the whole family: Anyone who had a problem with me had a problem with her.
But the real reason I feel compelled to thank her in this space, back here with the escort ads, is because I wouldn't have this space if it weren't for her.
My mother, as my brother Bill likes to say, made friends like Rockefeller made money and George W. Bush makes mistakes—and she was that friend you confided in and went to for advice. I was a mama's boy—hello—and I spent a great deal of time in my mother's kitchen listening to her tell her friends exactly what they needed to do. Sometimes gently, sometimes brusquely, always with a dose of humor. My mom liked to say that her son got paid to do something that she did for free—and isn't that the way the world works? Women cook, men are chefs; women are housewives, men are butlers; she gave advice, I got paid to give advice. (And for a few years, she did too; my mother and I wrote a joint column for a couple of websites in the 1990s.)
So I want to thank my mom. I wouldn't be writing this column today if it weren't for her gifts and her ability to find the humor in even the most serious of subjects.
Even death, even her own.
After a long struggle, we had to go into my mother's hospital room and tell her that nothing more could be done. She didn't go into the hospital expecting to die and she was not ready to go. But she took the news with her characteristic grace. She said her farewells, asked us never to forget her (as if), and paused for a moment. Then Mom lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, and said...
My mother wasn't crude; I didn't get my foul mouth from her. She used profanity sparingly and then only in italics and quotation marks. When she said "shit" on her deathbed, we understood the joke. What she meant was this: "Now, the kind of person who casually uses profanity might be inclined to say 'shit' at a moment like this. But I'm not the kind of person who casually uses profanity—and certainly not at a moment like this. But if I were the kind of person who casually used profanity, 'shit' might be the word I would use right now. If I were that kind of person. Which I'm not."
Everyone gathered around her bed—my mother's husband (my son has two fathers and so do I), my sister, my aunt—knew what Mom wanted: She wanted us to laugh. This woman, so full of life, who wanted so badly to live, having just been told she would not, she was trying to lift our spirits. ("Shit," for the record, wasn't her last word. Those were just for the family.)
Anyway, my mom is dead, and I am not in the mood, as she used to say. ("You are so," one of us kids would usually respond. "You're in a bad mood.") So I'm going to take a week or two off, from the column and the podcast, hang out with the boyfriend and the kid, and burst into tears in coffee shops and grocery stores. I'll run some greatest hits in this space while I'm away—I'll find a column or two featuring Mom—and then I'll be back, just as filthy minded as ever. In lieu of flowers, please send pictures of your boyfriends' rear ends. (Lesbians may send flowers.) If you're the donation-making type and you're so inclined, my mother would be pleased to see some of your money flow to PFLAG (www.pflag.org) or the Pulmonary Fibrosis Foundation (www.pulmonaryfibrosis.org).
Oh, one last thing: I was supposed to take my mother to see the national tour of The Drowsy Chaperone in Chicago this Friday, April 11. It was her birthday present. I got us great seats: seventh row, on the aisle. But I won't be able to use our tickets now. Not because it would be too depressing to go without my mother—not just because—but because, as rotten, stinking fate would have it, I'm going to be at my mother's wake on Friday night.
But I'm practical, like Mom, and I'd hate to see perfectly good tickets to a national tour of a hit Broadway musical go to waste. And it occurs to me that there has to be a teenage boy out there—in Chicago or close enough—who likes musicals and has a mother who loves him for the little musical-theater queen that he is. If you know that boy or you are that boy or you were that boy a decade ago or if you're that boy's mother or grandmother, send me an e-mail and I'll arrange to get these tickets to you.
Like I said, they're great seats. I would go if I could. But I can't.
Savage Love Extra
Advice from Mom
Wednesday 16, 2008
Hey, everybody: If you missed last week's column, I'm taking a week off because, well, go read last week's column if you care to know. Here's an old column—from May 24, 1995—to tide you over until my return next week. It not only features my mother, but also my boyfriend's very first mention in the column. And as you'll see, last week wasn't the first time I gave Mom the credit for my very curious career. —Dan
You recently wrote something about people who "are only attracted to amputees." Well, I personally have been attracted to female amputees for as long as I can remember. Have other people written you about this amputee attraction phenomenon? I get very excited when I come across a single-legged girl crutching along, or encounter a pretty young woman with an empty sleeve dangling where an arm should be. Do you know of any clubs or organizations that cater to such an interest? Are there many others with this attraction, and where can I meet amputees?AMP Fan
My dear old Catholic ma came to visit me from Chicago recently—for a whole week. Mom stayed with me at my new apartment, where she got to meet my new boyfriend, which went something like this: "Isn't he a little young?" "He's 24." "Well, he doesn't look 24." "You got me, Mom. He's 12 years old. I'm the president of NAMBLA. I met him at Baskin-Robbins. I'm going to jail for this. But before I do, I'll sponsor him at his confirmation, okay?"
I bring up my mother not because she's an amputee—just for the record, Mom still runs around on all fours—but because it was my mom who taught me everything I know about giving advice. During my formative years, I spent countless hours listening to my mother tell her sisters, her friends, and ladies from the parish to get their shit together. They came to her, she told them what she thought, and I drank it in. So, in honor of Mother's Day, I let the ol' gal have a go at this sex-advice thang. AMP Fan, here's Mom's advice for you:
"Go and do some volunteer work at a hospital. Work in a rehabilitation institute for people who've lost a limb in a car wreck or something." Sounds like Ma's on your side. Did she really mean to say people attracted to amputees should lurk around hospitals? "Well, no, of course not. I just thought he could meet an amputee that way. I guess he'd be volunteering for the wrong reasons, like a pedophile working for the Boy Scouts." "Or going into the priesthood?" [Icy silence.] "Maybe he should go see a shrink and find out why he's into this."
Sound advice. If I may put in my own two cents: Amputee fetishism, while not as common as, say, leather fetishism, isn't exactly unheard of. While I don't personally have any knowledge of organizations for amputees and the folks who love 'em, perhaps someone reading this does and will write in. Meanwhile, what's to stop you from taking out a personal ad seeking like-minded pervs and starting an organization of your own?
What is the medical explanation for the fact savage_question the skin of the penis is often darker than skin that is not exposed to sunlight? Does the bacteria a penis encounters while fucking have anything to do with this phenomenon?Ken H
"Ask a doctor," Ma sez. "That's what I would do. Or better yet, don't worry about things like this and, you know, have a life."
I have been living with my boyfriend now for two years. We have known each other for 17 years, but since we started living together things have escalated from serious to very serious. I love him, this is for sure. He is wonderful, honest, kind, and all that. This guy does not have a mean bone in his body. I even had an affair recently, told him, and he forgave me.
The problem? I must be one of those people who has a constant wandering eye, and right now I think I am in love/lust with another man. It's occurred to me recently that if it isn't one love interest on the side, it's another. I don't want to lose my lover, but I know being honest would finish us off this time around, so what am I to do about this other guy? I guess there is a simple solution—confess and move on, but all I want is just to have sex with this other guy. Besides lying or telling the truth or talking about opening our bedroom, which my boyfriend has already objected to, what should I do?On Fire
"I think you should be monogamous," says Mom. "I think everyone should be monogamous." Why? "I don't think we were meant to be promiscuous." Why? "Because we're supposed to find someone we like and settle down with that person." Why? "Because that's what mothers want their kids to do, that's why. It brings order to the world. Stability. So, in my opinion, you shouldn't act on your feelings for this man who is not your boyfriend. Not all decisions should be based on how you feel."
As for your lover, "He sounds very nice and forgiving. Maybe too nice and too forgiving. Forgiveness is important, I'm a forgiving mom, but it sounds like he's being a doormat. If monogamy is important to him, and you can't control yourself, then maybe you two aren't a match."
I'm mooning over this guy who works in a store up the street from my house. I gave him my number one day, hoping he'd get the message and call me, but, you guessed it, he hasn't. He always smiles at me when I come into the store, and looks interested, but... nothing so far. I fell for this guy because he reminded me of this married guy I've been seeing who I think has fallen back in love with his wife. I'm about to give up and become a nun or something. What should I do? I am attractive, confident, and I've been told I'm the fantasy girl of every lover's dreams more than once.Miserable In Belltown
"Women who date married men are just being used—by men every bit as screwed up as they are," says Mom. "And that man was probably never out of love with his wife."
"I'm heavily into marital fidelity; I'm supportive of marital fidelity," Mom continued, sounding like an unannounced Republican presidential hopeful. "I do think it's possible to have a sexual relationship with a married man and not get hurt," said Mom, suddenly sounding like a Democratic president, "but you have to know in advance that it's not going to be anything more than sex. And most healthy people aren't willing to settle for that."
As for the boy in the store, "He's smiling at you to be polite; if he were interested he would've called by now. Stop wasting your time being interested in people who aren't interested in you."
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